by P. I. Paris
‘Yes, we are.’
‘What you’re doing is marvellous. Marvellous! Wait until I tell my wife, Doreen. She’ll be so excited. I wouldn’t dream of charging you. I’ll deliver them myself as soon as they’re ready. I’ll send Doreen to the newsagent’s the moment I put down the phone. Are there any particular newspapers you would like?’
Half an hour later the lounge was filled with the smell of fried fish, chips and vinegar. The order included a couple of loaves of bread, butter and bottles of sauce. The excitement of earlier in the day was replaced with a feeling of general contentment as people tucked into their meals.
‘I can’t remember when I last had one of these,’ said Joyce, munching her way through an enormous chip butty.
‘I can’t remember ever eating so much,’ said Dorothy, showing no signs of slowing down. ‘What did that nice man call these?’
‘Moby Dicks,’ said Joyce, pushing a chip back into her mouth.
‘Well, I’ve certainly never had such a big one.’
‘As the actress said to the bishop,’ whispered Joan, which set Walter and Angus off giggling again.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.’
‘Sorry, love. You enjoy your Moby Dick.’
‘I will, don’t you worry.’
‘It’s amazing how building a barricade gives you an appetite,’ said Walter. ‘Maybe we should make one every day, then Matron can cancel the classes – like that bloke with the accordion.’
‘It could go national,’ added Angus. ‘Build a barricade for a better life.’
‘Barricades – the building blocks for healthy bones,’ said Walter.
‘What a day it’s been,’ said Joan.
‘We’ll certainly not forget it,’ added Angus. ‘Pass the salt, please, Joyce.’
‘I don’t think anyone here will forget it,’ added Miss Ross.
There had been a stand-off with the owner’s representative and a more senior manager was due to arrive the following morning. A truce had been declared and once it was clear the committee were determined to stay overnight, Matron and her staff had spent nearly an hour collecting items from bedrooms and passing them through the window.
Holders for false teeth, dressing gowns and slippers, books, glasses, a hearing aid battery . . . the list had seemed endless, and it wasn’t long before there was some good-humoured banter going on between the carers and the residents.
‘Aren’t you going to finish those chips, Deirdre?’ asked Joyce, deftly moving the newspaper containing the unfinished supper across to her own knee before the other woman could answer.
‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Mrs MacDonald.
There was a silence, before Walter replied. ‘Do you know . . . we can do exactly whatever we want?’
‘Well, what do we want?’ asked Deirdre, watching with amazement at how quickly her uneaten chips were disappearing.
‘How about a dance?’ said Joan.
‘How about a drink?’ added Angus.
‘Why don’t we have a party?’ suggested Joyce.
‘Angus,’ said Walter, ‘would you be kind enough to help me compile the drinks order?’
‘Babycham,’ said Meg and Peg together, which at least solved the problem of which one wanted what.
‘Mine’s a port and lemon!’ shouted Joyce.
‘Stout.’
‘Hey, there’s no need for that sort of comment, Dorothy. I’m just big-boned.’
Everyone waited for Dorothy to take the bait. It took quite a few moments.
‘Goodness me. No, Joyce. I meant that stout was the drink I wanted.’
Joyce hung on for as long as she could before doubling over in laughter, her chins vying with each other to wobble the most.
‘Oh, you’re pulling my leg! You are awful.’
‘But I like you,’ cried Joyce, slapping her thigh with delight and sending several chips onto the floor, one going down the inside of her slipper.
‘Hey, never mind a chip butty, you’ve got a chip footy,’ said Walter.
‘Pity to waste it,’ she said, stretching down and only just managing to retrieve the chip, which she popped into her mouth.
There was an instant of disbelief before everyone burst out laughing and soon several of them were trying to outdo each other with jokes and stories, while so many people shouted out their drinks orders that Walter couldn’t write them down fast enough.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ he cried. ‘Was that Martini shaken or stirred?’
‘I’ll give Matron a ring and get a CD player sent around,’ said Joan, but as no one appeared to hear above the surrounding din, she shouted, ‘WHAT MUSIC DO WE WANT?’ which set them all off down another avenue of debate.
Glenn Miller won the day, and while one of the night staff organised a selection of the required CDs from a friend who lived nearby, Walter called the local pub, which was quick to deliver free of charge two boxes of assorted bottles, cans and packets of crisps, plus a wide selection of glasses.
Word of what the residents were doing had spread and they had gained a lot of local sympathy and admiration. Angus set up a bar on one of the tables, while Walter helped to move chairs and furniture to create a space for dancing.
When they all had their correct drinks, Walter stood up and raised his glass.
‘To the Escape Committee!’
There was a chorus of ‘To the Escape Committee!’ before Joan jumped up and said, ‘To Miss Ross!’
There were so many toasts in quick succession that everyone’s glasses soon had to be refilled and then refilled again. It seemed as though each minute that passed eliminated another year from their age and an hour later anyone listening outside would have been forgiven for thinking the lounge contained a group of boisterous teenagers.
Angus put on a CD and as ‘Moonlight Serenade’ filtered across the room Joan dimmed the lights and the atmosphere took on a different tempo in every sense.
‘Miss Ross, would you do me the honour of giving me this dance?’ said Walter, who had walked up to her chair and bowed politely.
‘Well, I was never a great dancer,’ she replied, for once appearing quite flustered; indeed, she was more taken aback then when she had faced the television cameras.
But everyone was watching and smiling, while Walter was holding out his arm, and there was simply no way she could refuse, not after everything they had been through. Their first steps were greeted with a huge round of applause. Angus followed his example and was soon dancing with Joan. Joyce stood up and waddled over to Dorothy, where she bowed, at least as far as she was able.
‘I would be most extremely grateful if you would put down your knitting and give me the honour of this dance, the music of which I am particularly fond.’
‘Well, I am most touched by your kind offer,’ replied Dorothy, playing along.
For the next few hours the well-known tunes of Glenn Miller floated from the lounge and beyond the barricade, beyond boundaries of age, status and beliefs. ‘Sunrise Serenade’, ‘A String of Pearls’, ‘Little Brown Jug’ . . . the music seemed to bind them all together in a mood of reflection.
People in other parts of the building thought about the protesters and what they were trying to achieve. They thought about family and friends, alive and dead, and about their own lives and what they themselves had achieved or were perhaps trying to achieve.
In a bedroom along the ground floor Mrs Campbell tapped her fingers on the duvet and remembered when she was young and was considered quite a catch, and the fun she had enjoyed before allowing her dear husband to catch her. Mr Sutherland, too excited to go to bed following his part in the earlier subterfuge, sat in his chair, nodding in time to the music and reliving the moment he asked his future wife for a dance to ‘Tuxedo Junction’.
Even those residents who lived in a haze of confusion were transported back to their youth and an era when they were strong and healthy and whole. They smiled joyfully in the semi-dark of their bedro
oms, and when laughter filtered throughout the otherwise silent building they joined in as if at the party themselves.
Nineteen
As Miss Ross and Joan surveyed the scene in front of them the next morning, it was obvious that the protest couldn’t continue. The lounge looked dreadful and so did the people in it. Empty bottles, glasses, crisp packets and balls of newspaper were scattered amongst the figures still asleep, whilst the place had an unpleasant odour of which the fish supper was not the only culprit. Those who were awake moved about gingerly, the result of either too much alcohol or having spent the night in a chair.
‘This can’t go on,’ said Joan.
‘No,’ agreed Miss Ross. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. No one wants to be the first to admit it, but everyone is desperate for a shower, a change of clothes and to get out into the fresh air. I know I am.’
‘But we did well.’
‘Yes. I just wonder what good it will do in the end.’
There were some tense moments as people queued for the one toilet, but once everyone had been given a cup of tea they gathered around and agreed to stay put until the care home owners had come back with a response. People tidied themselves and the surroundings as best they could and at nine o’clock Matron appeared at the window with a more senior representative.
He agreed to meet everyone individually and discuss their situation on a case-by-case basis. As a further gesture of goodwill, none of the residents would be charged for the cost of repairing any damage. There was little more that could be done. The man read out a brief statement to the reporters who had gathered again outside and they quickly dispersed, heading for the next story.
‘We’re already yesterday’s news,’ said Miss Ross, watching the media leaving. The Chinese film crew had already headed south to resume its search for the ‘water dragon’.
‘Our fifteen minutes of fame!’ said Joan. ‘It’s not much over the course of your whole life.’
A couple of male carers climbed through the window in order to dismantle the barricade and by ten o’clock the members of the Escape Committee were being shown back to their rooms. There was a mixture of conflicting emotions. Deirdre and Mrs MacDonald almost looked as if they were about to claim to have been kidnapped, while the sparkle that had captured them all the previous night was fading in the bright light of the morning.
They were once more elderly people in a care home, waiting for families to make contact, passing time until the next outing. Not everyone was crestfallen. Walter and Angus tried to hang on to the magic that had been created and a few in the committee gave a thumbs-up or a comment to other residents, many of whom applauded as they walked by, along the corridor.
Miss Ross felt that everything they had achieved was slipping away, but she kept her misgivings to herself. There was one encouraging development. The previous evening a taxi driver in Inverness had set up a website called ‘Save our Seniors’ to raise funds. Over the next few days this generated support from people throughout the UK, although by the weekend the donations dried up, with the total at almost £8,000. The residents at We Care For You were extremely grateful. When split evenly between them, the money would pay for their rise in fees for almost a fortnight.
Twenty
Thursday, 14th April
Have I been foolish? I’m powerless, unable to help the one person I most want to. All I’ve achieved is to cause delay and disappointment. No one openly blames me for the failures, but I feel it inside so keenly. What good is my education now? What good is my love? My nights are filled with despair.
Twenty One
‘Oh, Mr McKenzie! That pawn!’
‘Julie! My Queen!’
‘It’s disgusting, a man of seventy-eight with a woman in her early twenties . . . And every Thursday afternoon, as frequent as semolina!’
Deirdre, listening outside Walter’s bedroom door, was beside herself with indignation and had to fight to keep her voice low as she spoke to Mrs MacDonald and Angus, the latter having been unwillingly dragged into the spying session. The home’s moral judge could be extremely domineering at times.
‘Well, at least he’s regular,’ said Angus.
‘It’s not right. Not fair to everyone else.’
‘Matron should be told,’ chipped in Mrs MacDonald. ‘You’re a man, Angus. What do you think?’
He wanted to say ‘Lucky bloody bugger’ but held back and replied, ‘I’m sure Matron already knows.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Deirdre. ‘They might hear us.’
‘Between The Archers and their noise, I don’t think Walter and his niece are likely to notice anything we do out here.’
‘She’s no more his niece than I am. We have to put a stop to this.’
‘What someone does in the privacy of their own bedroom is up to them,’ said Angus.
‘But it’s not his. It belongs to We Care For You.’
‘Yes,’ added Mrs MacDonald. ‘It’s part of our home, all of us.’
‘The space between those four walls . . . it’s the only place left where we have some control. As far as I’m concerned, while he pays his fees it’s his domain.’
‘It’s not residential fees he’s paying for with that woman! We can’t simply do nothing.’
Angus thought he heard a different sound from the other side of the door.
‘Quiet! I think someone’s coming.’
‘Again!’ cried Mrs MacDonald. ‘It’s not natural.’
‘To the stairs, quickly.’
He ushered them along the corridor, but they hadn’t got far when the bedroom door was flung open and Walter emerged. He called after the scurrying figures, forcing them to stop.
‘All right, folks?’
‘Err . . . yes, thanks,’ said Angus.
Walter nodded politely to the women.
‘Deirdre, Mrs MacDonald.’
‘Hello,’ replied Deirdre, forcing a smile. ‘We were . . . going for a walk.’
‘Ah, along the corridor?’
‘It’s wet outside,’ she replied.
‘Oh, I hadn’t noticed.’
Under her breath Deirdre whispered, ‘I bet you hadn’t.’
It was then that Julie walked out of the bedroom. She looked so stunning that Angus couldn’t take his eyes off her, even though he had seen her on many occasions.
‘Thank you, Uncle Walter. I’ve really enjoyed myself.’
‘That’s all right, love.’
‘You might have given me a beating this time, but I’m going to give you such a thrashing next Thursday.’
Deirdre put a hand to her mouth in an attempt to hide her gasp, while Mrs MacDonald’s legs went so wobbly that she had to take hold of Angus’s arm for support. The couple seemed unaware of the effects their comments were making and carried on amicably.
‘I can’t wait, Julie.’
She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek, then walked past the others, politely acknowledging each of them. They automatically returned her greetings and a few moments later the sound of high-heeled shoes could be heard clip-clopping down the stairs.
Deirdre’s indignation had never been so indignant.
‘Well! What have you got to say for yourself?’
‘Say? Nothing, except that I’m going to lie down,’ said Walter, giving a rather over-theatrical yawn. ‘I’m suddenly feeling rather tired.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ whispered Angus.
‘I’ll see you all later,’ he said, going back into his room. As he closed the door, they could hear him say, ‘Enjoy your walk.’
‘I can’t believe the nerve of the man!’ spluttered Deirdre when they were alone.
‘She’s so young,’ said Mrs MacDonald.
‘And so pretty,’ mused Angus.
‘It’s not just . . . you know . . . but beatings as well.’
‘Beatings?’ queried Mrs MacDonald.
‘I dread to imagine what sort of obscene objects the poor cleaners come across. It’s a wo
nder they’ve not complained.’
‘Well, I still think he has a right to his privacy.’
‘And our ears have a right not to be inflicted with this depravity.’
‘You don’t have to listen at his door.’
‘That’s not the point. Come along, Mrs MacDonald. Let’s find a quiet spot to decide a plan of action. You’ll be joining us?’
‘No, I need some fresh air. I’m off to the pub.’
‘You men! You’re all the same.’
Angus watched the two women walk away, one propelled by righteousness and the other by loyalty.
‘I wish we were,’ he said quietly to himself.
As the women reached the top of the stairs, Mrs MacDonald could be heard asking, ‘What sort of objects, Deirdre?’
Twenty Two
Later that evening, Walter was sitting near the piano with a book in his lap. It was difficult to concentrate on the text and he constantly picked up the paperback only to lay it down again. He kept thinking about Julie’s visit that afternoon and the day when the Escape Committee had barricaded themselves into the lounge. Was it really only a couple of weeks ago?
It seemed to him that the two events were somehow connected, perhaps because they both represented examples of injustice and hurt, fear and determination. He looked up as a figure sat down beside him.
‘All right, Angus?’
‘I suppose so. Recovered, have you? I don’t know how you do it.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t play the innocent. The entire care home knows what goes on in your bedroom on a Thursday afternoon.’
‘Well, it’s none of their business, is it?’
‘Don’t get on to me, I agree with you. Anyway, that’s not really what I meant.’
‘What then?’
‘How do you . . . do it? At our age.’
‘What’s wrong, can’t you get it up any more?’
Angus looked away, crestfallen, and Walter suddenly felt terrible that his banter had overstepped a mark and hurt his friend. He had hurt him more than enough already during his life.
‘Sorry, mate. I meant that as a joke, but it just came out wrong. It was totally out of order.’ Angus remained silent. ‘There’s no shame in it, if that is the case.’
